compatriots. Most of it sounded like one long, grand adventure, only filled with very real threats and dangers. Jack had been lucky to live on more than one occasion. Others had not been so lucky. Somewhere in northwestern Missouri, Jack finally got around to telling me about Emme Ya Ambala and Antoine Boutrain. His eyes darkened and his voice cracked slightly as he began. “It was a crazed act, Z … by a crazed Nazi … and completely unnecessary … the goddamn war was nearly over when it happened.”
As Jack told me the story, my heart felt pierced with every word and sentence. On March 22, 1945, a Gestapo agent who had been disgraced in Paris two years earlier in his pursuit of the Russian revolutionary Voline was trying to escape Europe through Marseille. His hatred and obsession with Voline had been well known among the underground in occupied France. Purely as a final, mad act of revenge, he decided to blow up the house where Voline had once held court, the same address where Antoine, Emme, and Antoinette now lived, along with Mitch Coates and Mercy Whitney. It was the second day of spring and the sky was a soft, light blue. Mitch and Mercy were out of town visiting friends in Paris. Antoinette was in her last year of school just a mile away. At ten after ten in the morning, she and each of her classmates heard the explosion and ran to the window. For a full thirty seconds, Antoinette and the other girls watched the smoke and huge fireball rise into the air, wondering what or who had blown up.
I closed my eyes and sat in silence. Jack drove the Ford on through Missouri toward St. Louis. Inside my mind I said farewells to Emme and Antoine by remembering every single second I had spent with each of them, in the desert and at sea and in Paris. They were much more than friends to me and to the Meq. They were two of the best people I have ever known. Geaxi warned me once about becoming too attached to any Giza. She told me they would break my heart. “Your feelings for them cannot and shall not sustain them,” she said. I disagreed with her then, but now I realized Geaxi was simply telling the truth. When I finally looked up, we were already in St. Louis, only one block from Carolina’s house. Ancient oaks and maples shaded the streets. A few were just beginning to show leaves of red, yellow, and burnt orange. I could smell Forest Park in the distance. I looked over at Jack. “Where is Antoinette?”
He drove another block, then slowed and pulled into the long private driveway, coming to a stop under the stone archway just outside two massive oak doors that used to serve as the entrance to the best whorehouse in St. Louis. “Right here,” Jack said with a grin. “Mitch and Mercy brought her back to the States with them and now they’re all staying with Carolina.” He turned off the engine and told me to be quiet. He grinned again. “We’ll sneak in on them. They don’t know we’re coming.”
Once we were inside the big house, we crept toward the kitchen. I could hear a man and woman talking, and a baseball game was on the radio. I had completely forgotten that the World Series was in progress. The Cubs were playing the Tigers. When Jack walked into the kitchen without a word, Mercy saw him first and broke into joyous laughter. She ran over to give him a hug and Mitch turned around in his chair. We locked eyes immediately.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Mitch said. On the radio the broadcaster announced Hank Greenberg had just doubled for the Tigers.
“Who’s winning?” I asked.
“Who cares?” Mitch said, pulling out a chair at the table and turning off the radio. “Come here and sit down, Z. You sure are a sight for sore eyes, man.”
Mercy let go of Jack and bent over at the waist, giving me a warm embrace. There were multicolored specks of paint on her shirt and jeans and she smelled of turpentine. “You’ve been working,” I said.
“Yes … finally.”
I looked at both of them.
As Jack told me the story, my heart felt pierced with every word and sentence. On March 22, 1945, a Gestapo agent who had been disgraced in Paris two years earlier in his pursuit of the Russian revolutionary Voline was trying to escape Europe through Marseille. His hatred and obsession with Voline had been well known among the underground in occupied France. Purely as a final, mad act of revenge, he decided to blow up the house where Voline had once held court, the same address where Antoine, Emme, and Antoinette now lived, along with Mitch Coates and Mercy Whitney. It was the second day of spring and the sky was a soft, light blue. Mitch and Mercy were out of town visiting friends in Paris. Antoinette was in her last year of school just a mile away. At ten after ten in the morning, she and each of her classmates heard the explosion and ran to the window. For a full thirty seconds, Antoinette and the other girls watched the smoke and huge fireball rise into the air, wondering what or who had blown up.
I closed my eyes and sat in silence. Jack drove the Ford on through Missouri toward St. Louis. Inside my mind I said farewells to Emme and Antoine by remembering every single second I had spent with each of them, in the desert and at sea and in Paris. They were much more than friends to me and to the Meq. They were two of the best people I have ever known. Geaxi warned me once about becoming too attached to any Giza. She told me they would break my heart. “Your feelings for them cannot and shall not sustain them,” she said. I disagreed with her then, but now I realized Geaxi was simply telling the truth. When I finally looked up, we were already in St. Louis, only one block from Carolina’s house. Ancient oaks and maples shaded the streets. A few were just beginning to show leaves of red, yellow, and burnt orange. I could smell Forest Park in the distance. I looked over at Jack. “Where is Antoinette?”
He drove another block, then slowed and pulled into the long private driveway, coming to a stop under the stone archway just outside two massive oak doors that used to serve as the entrance to the best whorehouse in St. Louis. “Right here,” Jack said with a grin. “Mitch and Mercy brought her back to the States with them and now they’re all staying with Carolina.” He turned off the engine and told me to be quiet. He grinned again. “We’ll sneak in on them. They don’t know we’re coming.”
Once we were inside the big house, we crept toward the kitchen. I could hear a man and woman talking, and a baseball game was on the radio. I had completely forgotten that the World Series was in progress. The Cubs were playing the Tigers. When Jack walked into the kitchen without a word, Mercy saw him first and broke into joyous laughter. She ran over to give him a hug and Mitch turned around in his chair. We locked eyes immediately.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Mitch said. On the radio the broadcaster announced Hank Greenberg had just doubled for the Tigers.
“Who’s winning?” I asked.
“Who cares?” Mitch said, pulling out a chair at the table and turning off the radio. “Come here and sit down, Z. You sure are a sight for sore eyes, man.”
Mercy let go of Jack and bent over at the waist, giving me a warm embrace. There were multicolored specks of paint on her shirt and jeans and she smelled of turpentine. “You’ve been working,” I said.
“Yes … finally.”
I looked at both of them.
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